Chapter Text
Haddock walks down the gangplank to the dock and stretches, groaning, his back and shoulders letting out popping sounds as he reaches his hands skyward. It’s been a long run, up to that research station in Iceland to deliver food and supplies. He and Tintin will dock here in Suffolk for a few days to refuel, rest and have a brief holiday, before they swing back to MarlinSpike Hall to pick up Snowy (the poor thing wounded his paw chasing after a badger and had to stay home with Nestor). Then they’ll sail off again, likely to London, and then possibly to New York, if he finds a big enough job, or Tintin finds a big enough story to pursue.
Right now, he needs whiskey, a good meal and maybe some entertainment for the evening. The meal he can share with Tinin, who’d disappeared into the crowds the moment they’d docked. Off to do some investigating on some story or other. The whiskey and the entertainment he is more likely to enjoy on his own. Especially since the entertainment he’s after will probably make Tintin screw up his face with displeasure.
Haddock is randy. He can’t help it. He’s a man who’s been stuck on a ship for three weeks with a companion he finds frankly delectable, and with no opportunity for release, other than his own hand, which is getting boring. And besides, wanking to thoughts of Tintin isn’t healthy. His young traveling companion has no interest in Haddock in that way. He seems to have no interest in anyone in a sexual manner. He’s a young man, full of vim and vigor, and still, he hasn’t spoken one word to Haddock in the year or so they’ve known each other about pleasures of the flesh that don’t involve a good meal or a hot shower.
Considering that Tintin likely won’t understand Haddock’s need to sow his wild oats as it were, it’s probably for the best that the lad had taken off like a shot the moment they’d docked. Let him follow up on whatever leads he has, whilst Haddock searches for a bar and a brothel, in that order.
He eats a passable meal of fish and chips at the closest bar that looks clean, and treats himself to a few shots of whiskey, until the edgy exhaustion he’s felt from their last trip starts to wear off, replaced by the warm sense of well being brought on by alcohol. He pulls out his mobile phone and sees a text from Tintin, out until late. Don’t wait up, and frowns. He’d been looking forward to spending the evening at least partially in Tintin’s presence. Perhaps after he’s visited the local brothel, when he can be relaxed and amiable in the wake of a good orgasm. But Tintin obviously has other plans, and so, Haddock must content himself with an evening spent mostly alone.
He finds a nice brothel a few streets away from the docks, because he knows this part of Suffolk well, and has a distant memory of there being a good place, subtle and well funded, in this general area.
The madam shows him to a small room, and the sex worker, a smallish man around 30, wearing eyeliner and a shimmery tank top over tight leather trousers, sucks him off with startling efficiency. Haddock comes, thinking of Tintin, like he usually does, tips the young man heavily, then wanders back to the ship, loose and relaxed. The only thing missing, as he settles in to watch some inane show on the small, blurry television he has hooked up to a DVD player in his cabin, is Tintin’s presence. He falls asleep to the laugh track on an episode of The Young Ones.
He wakes the next morning, too early, with a bit of a headache, but overall, the visit to the brothel had kept him from getting too drunk, so things could have been worse.
“Morning captain!” Tintin greets him with a sunny smile. Haddock flinches at the brightness of it.
“You’re certainly chipper this morning,” he mumbles into his coffee. “What did you get up to last night?”
“I was laying the groundwork for an undercover identity,” Tintin replies.
“Oh, and what story are you after?” Haddock is just a little hurt that Tintin would do research or lay groundwork for a story without talking to Haddock about it first. They’ve been pretty much inseparable since the discovery of Haddock’s family treasure. They’d both decided to continue sailing around the world together, solving crimes, uncovering stories and using Haddock’s ship as a cover. It suits Haddock just fine, who hadn’t wanted to turn into some soft, wealthy ninny in the wake of his financial good fortune. The fact that Tintin is pursuing a lead without him though, rankles a bit.
“I’m trying to discover the identity and whereabouts of an infamous smuggler and human trafficker,” Tintin replies. “He’s been rumored to use Suffolk as a common stopping place, also a few towns in Cornwall, and so I’ve been making inquiries and setting up a trap of sorts.” He pauses and looks at Haddock, a sheepish expression making its way across his face. “It’s a pretty deep cover identity. I don’t think I should tell even you about it, Captain.”
Haddock waves away his concern and forces a smile. “No worries, lad. I’ll not press you for information. You just keep your secrets.” He’s almost certain he's been able to hide the hurt in his voice, but perhaps he isn’t entirely successful, for Tintin steps closer and places a warm hand on Haddock's forearm.
“I truly am sorry, Haddock. I know I share all my dealings with you, but this one is tough. If we don’t catch this man, innocent men and women, and even children could suffer. If you let anything slip whilst drunk-”
“Hey!” Haddock is stung by the implication. “I’d never do such a thing!”
Tintin gives him a look that says he knows full well that Haddock gets very chatty when he’s been drinking.
“Fine,” he says sullenly. “I see your point.”
“Also, these are the sorts of people who will kill to keep their operations secret. So I can’t risk them capturing you. I’d rescue you of course,” he says swiftly and in a manner that is probably supposed to be reassuring. “But if they torture you..”
“So I’m a drunkard who can’t keep his gob shut, or I’m a torture risk. Understood.” Haddock can’t help but rib his young companion a little, even through his genuine pout over being excluded. Tintin can be so serious sometimes when in pursuit of a story. This talk of kidnapping and torture is killing the buzz he felt from the lovely blow job he’d gotten last night.
Tintin smiles. It makes his whole face light up, and causes Haddocks’ heart to constrict with longing. “Very well Captain. You clearly understand where I’m coming from. Now, what’s for lunch?”
They spend the morning cleaning the ship in preparation for Haddock’s next job. Sweeping and vacuuming, airing out the cabins. They break for lunch and order sandwiches to go from a local sandwich shop, with a side of crisps. Then it’s more cleaning, before Haddock begs off for the day. “I have some shopping to do,” he says. “Care to go with me?”
Tintin glances at the face of his mobile phone and frowns. “Sorry Captain. It’s time I got ready for my undercover work. I’ll be out for the rest of the night, so don’t wait for me to have dinner.”
“You’ll eat something, won’t you?” Haddock asks, concerned because Tintin must be reminded to feed himself when he’s hot on the trail of a story like he is. He must also be reminded to sleep. Many’s the evening when the lad has passed out in his chair at supper, and Haddock has had to walk him to his bed. Then has to retire to his own bed, trying not to think about how warm and loose Tintin’s limbs appear as he flops down onto his bunk.
“I’ll make sure to eat supper somewhere, Captain. You needn’t worry about me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Haddock replies, for he spends a good bit of his day worrying about Tintin. It’s sort of a part time job.
Tintin only smiles his stellar smile and says goodbye. He leaves with a small duffle bag slung over his shoulder, and a swing in his step, and Haddock can only watch him go, already pining for his return. He’ll miss Tintin while he’s away, he always does, but also, and he feels the sting of rejection at not being included.
Well, the only thing for it is a repeat of last night. He goes back to the same bar. Has the shepherd’s pie this time, and more shots of whiskey, as well as a couple of pints. Not enough to get properly drunk, just enough to have a warm sense of well being that helps wash away the anxiety of being separated from Tintin for a whole second evening. And who knows for how many evenings yet to come? Maybe Tintin is done adventuring with Haddock and wants to strike out on his own? He has money now (Haddock saw to it that Tintin was generously compensated for his help in uncovering the treasure of the Unicorn). Enough for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Perhaps he no longer needs Haddock?
The thought alone makes him order and knock back a fourth shot of whiskey. After that, he walks back over to the brothel from last night. He’s still randy, despite his fears surrounding his best friend. Still wants to experience the cleansing rush of bliss that comes with orgasm, as it will possibly help assuage his worries momentarily.
Yes, he thinks another session with that nice lad from last night, the one that vaguely resembles Tintin might be welcome. Maybe he can ask if the young man will bugger him a bit? He hasn’t had a good buggering in ages. Most slight, feminine young men he’s come across in his travels seem to enjoy being bottoms, but sometimes, he’s been pleasantly surprised.
It’s not that Haddock has a reputation for visiting sex workers. He only does so perhaps a few times a year, when the loneliness of life at sea gets to be too much for him. But he does have a long life spent around dockside brothels and all manner of other illegal activities, and one learns things, if only one keeps one’s eyes and ears open.
Perhaps it’s a woman he’d prefer to be with tonight? Someone completely different from Tintin in all ways, including biological. He plays with the idea in his mind, turns it around and looks at it from different angles. He sometimes enjoys sex with women. It is yet another thing Tintin seems to find incomprehensible. Like when Haddock had openly admired the stunning looks of that opera singer who’s name now escapes him. Tintin had made a face and had gone all grumpy at that. Haddock wonders sometimes, in his weaker moments, if it hadn’t been jealousy fueling his companion’s distaste. Or perhaps it is sex in general, regardless of who is having it that Tintin doesn’t like? Who can say? Haddock certainly won’t be asking Tintin about it anytime soon. They just don’t have that sort of friendship.
He arrives at the brothel and is shown in warmly (he had tipped very generously last night after all). He asks the madam if the young man from last night is working, and is told that he isn’t, so he asks if there is another lad of similar build and coloring, or perhaps a woman with red or fair hair?
The madam smiles and looks over at a group of sex workers that are currently lounging around on divans and arm chairs in the brothel sitting room, and seems to ponder his request. Her eyes flick over to the corner of the room, and Haddock sees her give a small nod in that direction. He turns his head and sees what he at first thinks is a young woman, wearing something dark, with shoulder length platinum blond curls. When the woman stands and approaches him though, he can quickly tell that it is the body of a male person under the dress. The blond hair is likely a wig. This rather flamboyantly dressed individual wears a masquerade mask. A purple and gold rococo style mask that covers the top half of their face, but leaves their mouth, which is crimson, visible.
“This is Trina, and she’ll take good care of you tonight,” the madam says.
Ah, she. So it’s a transgender woman. Haddock, being a man in his fifties who has spent most of his life on board seafaring vessels, is just now, with Tintin’s help, and with support from various google searches, starting to wrap his mind around gender and all its variations. It makes sense to him, for if you wish to be referred to as female, then you should be. Tintin had patiently taught him about pronouns and orientation and gender identity, and now, he can be trusted not to make a complete arse out of himself in a brothel or at a banquet.
“Hello Trina,” Haddock says shyly. The woman nods without speaking, and leads him toward a back room. Haddock watches her walk, tracking the slight swing of her narrow hips with hungry eyes. She’s a pretty little thing. Delicate in some ways, strong in others, and that is just the sort of combination that drives Haddock wild.
By the time Trina shows him to a room and closes the door behind them, he’s already stiff under his trousers.
“What is it you're in the mood for?” she asks, her voice high and tremulous. She sounds a little nervous, which paradoxically helps Haddock relax.
“I… well… I was wondering, I know you’re a lady and all, but I wondered if perhaps you would be interested in… buggering me a bit?” Haddock asks, a wriggle of embarrassment worming it’s way through his belly. He’s unused to being this forward about his needs, but the thought of this pretty young woman reaming him, has him throwing caution to the wind.
Trina pauses a moment, and Haddock panics, thinking he’s insulted her, or perhaps that he has the biology all wrong and that perhaps she doesn't have the equipment to do what he asks. But then, she seems to come to a decision and nods. “Certainly,” she says, and her voice if anything sounds more nervous.
“You can do it with your fingers if you like. I know it’s not every evening you can have erections whenever a client wants that sort of thing,” Haddock offers clumsily.
“No, no. I’ll be fine. I’ll use a condom though, that’s company policy.”
“Aye, of course. I’d expect as much.”
Trina smiles. Her red mouth parts to reveal a row of sparkling white teeth and Haddock is instantly reminded of Tintin’s smile. He smiles back
“I don’t kiss on the mouth,” she says next, as if she were a mind reader, for Haddock was just entertaining the thought of pressing his mouth to those enticing ruby lips, but he knows it is pretty standard for sex workers to avoid kissing, so he nods to show he understands.
“I also don’t do any sort of pain play or choking. No BDSM. Just straight vanilla sex.” She has a posh accent that he likes. Makes him want to do anything she asks.
“That’s also fine with me,” Haddock says. He’s a simple man with simple tastes.
“Very well. I don’t typically start with anal sex though, so what would you like as a warmup?”
A warmup. Jesus, Haddock is plenty warmed up right now. But if she’s offering…
“Could I watch you touch yourself for a bit?” he asks nervously. He’s not sure how much he’s allowed to ask for, but there’s a no-nonsense yet friendly manner about this woman that also reminds him of Tintin.
“Sure. I’d like that. I like being watched.” The way she says it, a bit breathless and with a voice that isn’t entirely steady, it’s intoxicating. As is the glitter of her dark eyes behind the ornate mask she wears. He can see very few details of her clothing, for she’s dressed in a loose black frock, thigh high fishnet stockings, complete with garters, and what looks like black velvet slippers. She wears white satin gloves up to the elbows on both hands. The frock has lacy, mostly see through sleeves to the elbow, and is made of some loose, billowy material, with a high neckline. Her upper arms, the shadows at the edge of her deltoid, and the bulge of a strong bicep, makes Haddock shiver a little at the thought of what she could use that strength for.
She turns to a drawer in a nearby bedside table and comes up with a bottle of lube. She tosses it to Haddock. “Mind getting yourself ready while you watch?” She asks, and God, but the tilt of her head, the tone of her high pitched voice is so familiar somehow.
Haddock nods eagerly. “Shall I… sit on the bed?” He asks.
“Yes, that’s fine.”
“Mind if I undress?”
“This would be difficult to achieve if you don’t.” Her words are sassy, but her voice is still a tremble of nerves. Such a curious combination. As if she were new at this. Yet her self assuredness and direct manner also belie that theory.
Haddock pulls his jumper over his head, then his undershirt, then begins working at his trousers. He looks up and sees Trina’s eyes on him. She seems very interested in watching him undress, and indeed, her hands have frozen in the act of pulling up her skirt in order to give all of her attention to Haddock. It’s more than flattering. It’s also unusual. Is her intent focus an act? He decides a split second later that he doesn’t care.
He unbuckles and then pulls down his trousers and underpants, then sits on the edge of the bed, nude, his cock standing smartly at attention between his legs.
Trina hasn’t taken her eyes off him. Hasn’t closed them as some sex workers do, feigning being overcome by lust, when really they just don’t feel like looking. Instead, her eyes are trained squarely on his cock, and her cheeks have gone pink beneath her pale, powdered complexion beneath the bottom edge of the mask. She’s aroused by Haddock’s body, and this knowledge makes his heart race and his cock twitch in anticipation.
Trina finally lifts up her skirt, and pulls aside a pair of black lace knickers to reveal a lovely cock of her own. It’s pink and slender and rather long. A set of hairless bollocks hang softly beneath it, and Haddock drinks in the sight of her genitalia for a heart pounding moment. That is until she wraps a gloved hand around herself and gives herself a few swift strokes. Surprisingly, she’d been fully erect when she’d first lifted up her skirt. This happens sometimes, but usually, when he’s with a person with a penis, it takes a few moments to get even to half mast. This is a job for the sex worker, not a sexual fantasy, but Haddock loves it when he can tell that his partner is turned on. And Trina is definitely that. She’s stiff as a yardarm, and the tip of her cock is slick and wet with precum.
Haddock watches her touch herself, mesmerized by it for a while, before he remembers that he also has a job to do. He opens the lube, slicks up two fingers with it and leans back on the bed, reaching between his legs to probe at his hole while he continues watching Trine stroke herself.
It’s incredibly hot. She’s clearly enjoying herself, has flushed pink in the parts of her face that are visible. Her ruby red mouth has dropped open, and she’s panting a little with excitement.
Haddock slides a finger inside himself and groans with how good it feels. Trina groans with him, and that just ratchets up the desire. She seems well and truly aroused by watching him, and if it's an act, then it’s the best one he’s ever seen. Her hand is moving faster on her cock, and she’s reached down to touch that lovely pair of bollocks with the other. Her white, satin clad fingers, fondling herself is a sight to see indeed.
God, Haddock likes the gloves. He likes the mask too. He likes everything about her, from her small stature, to her deep voice, to the shape of her lips, the bottom one of which she is currently biting with those white teeth. He pumps his finger in and out of himself as he watches her continue to wank, then adds a second and groans again. “I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he says, his voice breaking a bit.
Trina reaches into a pocket of the dress and comes out with a rubber. She rips it open with her teeth, and then rolls it over the head of her cock, down the shaft in a slow slide that makes Haddock’s mouth water with the desire to suck her. Maybe tomorrow night, for he can already see spending all of his money in this establishment.
Once she’s fully sheathed in latex, Trina steps up to the bed. Her height and the height of the bed match up perfectly, so that she can fuck him without having to bend or to stand on her tiptoes. She puts her hands on the backs of Haddock’s thighs, presses his knees against his chest, and rests the head of her cock against his entrance. He falls back on the bed, but keeps his head lifted to watch her.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Lass, If I were any more ready I’d be done,” Haddock says with a sly grin. Trina grins back, and again there’s that faint echo of familiarity in that smile. Also nervousness. Her voice trembles just a little. Jesus, she’s either the best bloody actor in England, or she’s really liking this. He hopes it’s the latter.
“Excellent,” she says, and then sinks inside him in one, achingly slow stroke.
Haddock gasps as he feels her bottoming out, pressing against his prostate, filling him up. Fuck, His arousal is already on a knife’s edge. The feel of Trina’s gloved hands on his thighs, and the sight of her flushed face and red, parted lips above him are not helping matters. She begins thrusting, and Haddock’s head falls back, his eyes flutter closed at the pleasure of it.
“God, you feel good,” she says, her voice dropping a couple of octaves in a way that sounds completely unintentional.
“Fuck, yes, fuck,” Haddock would like to be more coherant with his praises, but Trina’s lazy yet thorough thrusts have effectively turned his brain into a pile of sparking synapses. Not much good for casual conversation. His cock is stiff and leaking, bobbing over his belly with every slap of Trina’s pelvis against his thighs. He wants to touch himself, but if he does, this will surely be over very soon.
The decision is made easier however by Trina’s next words. “Oh, I’m going to.. I think I’m going to..” she stammers out, then thrusts harder. Haddock can tell she’s close, so he grabs his cock and strokes himself quickly, and in less than half a dozen pulls, he’s cresting and spilling in a blinding sheen of pleasure that makes his vision white out. Distantly, he hears Trina let out a low, urgent noise, and Haddock can feel her pulsing inside him as she comes.
The heat and electricity between them could fuel a small city, and when it fades away, Haddock notices that Trina looks dazed and perhaps a little confused. She slowly pulls out, steps away from him and immediately turns away, letting the frock fall over her cock, whilst rummaging in a drawer. She turns back to Haddock and tosses a hand towel at him, seeming flustered, her movements stiff and uncoordinated. Not the typical, practiced or jaded moves of an experienced sex worker.
“You can pay the madam, she’ll see I get my due,” she murmurs, and then walks out. Simply leaves. Haddock is astounded, until he remembers that this was a business interaction. He shouldn’t expect too much in the way of lingering goodbyes. Yet there is something about the abruptness of Trina’s departure that is surely uncommon.
Regardless, he’s still tingling pleasantly from his astounding climax. He cleans himself up as best he can with the towel, hanging it (he hopes) respectfully on the bedpost, and dresses hurriedly before wandering out to the main room once more. There is no sign of Trina, and he pays the madam, again tipping heavily, and asks if Trina will be available tomorrow evening. He knows himself. He won’t be able to keep away. Trina is just enough like Tintin to allow him to fantasize a bit, to ease some of the constant, pining ache he lives with every day. Yet also, she’s enough not-Tintin that he can escape that yearning pain for an evening, sail away on a wild adventure where a pretty girl in a mysterious mask and gloves reams the daylights out of him. Well, if money was meant to be spent at all, surely it should be spent on that.
The madam tells him she isn’t certain of Trina’s schedule, that she’ll have to check with the young lady in question. Haddock tells her he’ll come back anyway. Inside though, he knows that if Trina isn’t there the following evening, he’ll turn around and leave. What they did together tonight could not possibly be topped by any experience that isn’t sex with his actual traveling companion and best friend.
He walks back to the ship whistling, with clouds beneath his feet.